


Wish I Was In Heaven Sitting Down

by standbygo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Five Plus One, Fluff, Food, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Parenthood, Three Garridebs Moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 10:06:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15434694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: Five times when Sherlock and John ate together, and one time they didn't. A history of the boys, in food.





	Wish I Was In Heaven Sitting Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SilentAuror](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/gifts).



> This is a wee gift to SilentAuror, who writes about food so well, just as she writes everything so well. 
> 
> Title comes from a R.L. Burnside blues song.
> 
> Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites without my express permission. Thank you.

**1\. Pork Dumplings**

First the smooth slide of the wonton against the palette and the tongue, then the application of pressure with the teeth, producing a small amount of water from the steaming process, and then the clash of flavours: pork predominant, with five spice powder tracing around the edges of the mouth, and chives tickling the high senses of taste.

Sherlock closed his eyes, chewed, and swallowed the dumpling.

“This is good. Really, really good,” John said, his voice somewhat muffled.

Sherlock opened his eyes again, and looked across the table at his dining companion; his new flatmate. He was still confounded by the evening’s events – not the stuff with the cabbie, that was done and polished – but John’s behaviour. A crack shot, from a long distance, with the intention to kill the cabbie and protect… Sherlock. Confounding.

John’s attention was downwards, at the tiny table crammed with food. John’s plate was full, his fork was full, his mouth was full.

 _Later_ , Sherlock thought. _I’ll figure this John Watson out later_. But at the moment, the needs of his transport had swept away his discipline and Sherlock was ravenously hungry.

“Try the dumplings,” Sherlock said, and put another in his mouth.

 

**2\. Ham sandwich on rye, with mustard**

“Eat. It.”

Sherlock looked up, but his sightline was flooded with the image of a sandwich. John was holding it out directly in front of Sherlock’s face.

“Case, John,” Sherlock said. “I’ve explained that-”

“Yes, yes, it’s only transport and you don’t eat on a case, I get that. But this is now day four, genius. In fact it’s been fifty two hours since Lestrade called, yes, I do keep track of such things, and you are dangerously close to hypoglycemia and passing out as a result, which will not help you or the rest of us find this killer. So for two minutes out of the last four days you will eat something.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, more out of habit than of pique.

“Sherlock. Please. As your doctor and your friend, I am asking you to eat _something_.”

_Friend._

The word trickled around the edges of Sherlock’s brain, trying to fill in the cracks not taken up by the case. He carefully filed the word away for later perusal.

“Fine,” he said. He grabbed the sandwich away. “If only to shut you up.”

“Thank you,” John said, and picked up his own sandwich. They bit, in unison.

“I don’t like mustard,” Sherlock said, his mouth full.

“Hm?” John looked up, his eyebrows lifted. There was a tiny dot of mustard on the fold of the right side of his mouth.

Sherlock licked the spot on his own face; a reflexive action. “Nothing.”

John swallowed hugely, and pointed at the photos scattered on the table. “So who’s that there?”

Sherlock took another bite, and peered down. “The nephew of the – oh!”

 

 **3.** **Beans on Toast**

Sherlock knew it was a comfort food for John. Simple to prepare, containing basic nutritional content, economic. It was the kind of food Sherlock could imagine John’s mother preparing at the end of John’s school day, perhaps with a drizzle of molasses for a treat.

The beans scattered across the toasted bread, with a few, dribbling with sauce, having fallen off the toast and onto the plate. John had not had time to shop, with the Moriarty trial and its subsequent outcomes. He was too jittery to order takeaway. So he had made do with what there was in the cupboards.

John ate quickly, methodically, his eyes darting between the window, the bookshelf where the camera had been hidden, the door. Sherlock found himself wanting to say, ‘ _Don’t worry, John_ ,’ but knew it was useless.

He looked down again. Counted, by habit. Fifty seven beans.

‘ _I know you’re for real_ ,’ John had said. Those five words were not just reassurance, but loyalty. John was loyal. The beans – making sure Sherlock ate, despite the severity of the situation – also meant loyalty. John believed in him. Sherlock’s head filled with the implications of that belief. It meant John wouldn’t leave him. It meant it would be harder to get John to leave him.

“Do you think he’s getting a warrant?” John said, his eyes darting to the door again. He meant Lestrade.

Sherlock didn’t answer. It was so obvious it wasn’t even worth the breath to say ‘Obvious’. He ate his beans, quickly, efficiently: dividing the toast into nine equal pieces, six beans per piece. The middle piece, without crusts, was eaten last. He left three beans on the plate in a smear of sauce.

He wiped his mouth as he heard the banging on the door, Mrs. Hudson’s outraged and shrill voice. Sherlock stood, and put on his coat and scarf.

 

**4\. Wedding meal**

“And for the main entrée, we have a number of choices: chicken kiev, stuffed with Black Forest Ham and Emmental cheese and roasted-”

“No. Next.”

“I _like_ chicken kiev, Sherlock,” said Mary.

“38% higher chance of salmonella contamination with chicken kiev,” Sherlock said. “Don’t want to risk that for your guests, do you?”

The chef frowned, but John’s mouth twitched in an almost-smile. Sherlock knew John didn’t like chicken kiev.

“We also have a lovely pan fried halibut-”

“Good God, are you mad? You’re just asking for a food poisoning suit. Listen: prime rib, fingerling roasted potatoes with rosemary, steamed veg, horseradish. Classic, sophisticated. Bring us a sampling, but also get the name and location of the farm where you source your beef.”

The chef gritted his teeth, turned and left. Sherlock knew that John and Mary were looking at each other, hiding their smirks, amused at Sherlock but trying to be nice.

A waiter brought out the sample meal. Mary ate delicately. John ate faster, humming with pleasure as he chewed. Sherlock cut a tiny mouthful of each part of the meal. It all tasted like dust, but he nodded once, sharply, with his approval.  He felt flayed inside, but covered it as he dabbed at the corner of his mouth with the linen napkin.

“And for dessert, profiteroles-”

“Fresh?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock said.

 

**5\. Sweet Potatoes, Applesauce, Peas**

John appeared in the kitchen doorway, still in his pajamas, still blurry with sleep. “What’s all this then?”

Both Sherlock and Rosie looked up at him; Sherlock with as small a smile as he could manage, and Rosie with a huge, gummy, open mouthed grin. “Da!” she said.

John kissed her on a spot on her head that was not covered in food. “Morning, love,” he said into her hair. “Morning, Sherlock.”

Sherlock noted that John looked rested. The grief and anger and exhaustion of the last year was dripping away from him, morning by morning.

“I didn’t even hear you two this morning. How long has she been up?”

Sherlock had crept into John and Rosie’s room at dawn, just as Rosie was starting to stir. He had allowed himself a single glance at John, sprawled across his bed, mouth slightly open, his brow unknotted and clear in sleep. Then he gathered Rosie up and took her downstairs before she could let loose her morning cry.

He had known he would be happy to have John back at Baker Street, but his pleasure at Rosie’s presence as well was a surprise. He enjoyed the light feeling in his heart when she smiled or laughed, which became positively dazzling when she directed those expressions at Sherlock. He liked the heft of her weight in his arms when he carried her. And he loved the serious look on her face when he talked to her.

“Not long,” he said.

John sat at the kitchen table, eyeing the litter of petri dishes and their colourful contents with some suspicion. “Sherlock, are you-”

“Experimenting, yes,” Sherlock said. He got Rosie’s attention again with a spoonful of bright green mush. “Watson’s old enough for proper food now, so I’m conducting an experiment to discover her taste preferences. So far she’s reacted positively to applesauce, sweet potato, carrots, and-” he put some food into her open and waiting mouth, “- peas. Texture appears to be a factor.” He pushed his notebook over to John. “As you can see I’ve rated her reactions based on colour, texture, and taste.”

“And what doesn’t she like?” John said, with a bemused look that Sherlock had to look away from.

“So far, Brussels sprouts, eggplant, and mango.”

“Ah. The mango doesn’t surprise me, I can’t stand it myself. She’s probably inherited that.”

Sherlock stared at John, agog. How did he not know that? He stood, picked up the petri dish with the orange slurry, and threw the whole thing in the dustbin.

John sat and watched, a small smile on his face, then pulled one of the dishes towards him. “You made all this yourself?”

“Of course.” Sherlock offered Rosie another spoonful but she turned her head and sighed. “Full, Watson? Right, thank you for your participation.” He carefully wiped her face and as much of her hair as he could, then handed her some large plastic keys to play with. “The cost of store-bought baby food is prohibitive, compared to the relatively small expense and investment of time that it takes to make it oneself. Also one is more assured of the contents, without preservatives and salt and so forth.”

John took a miniscule spoon from the table, and scooped some of the sweet potato into his own mouth. “That’s quite good, actually,” he said.

“That’s the third variation,” Sherlock said. He pulled another dish towards himself. “I’m fond of version five myself – I added pineapple juice.”

They sat across the table, comfortably quiet, eating from the petri dishes, as the city came to life outside.

 

 **1\. Chicken Tikka Masala, Oxtail Vindaloo, Kashmiri Lamb Roganjosh, Biryani, Mutter Pulao, Naan,** **Cucumber Raita; uneaten**

Sherlock could gauge John’s pain levels by the topography of his mouth – or rather, by the lack of topography: John’s mouth was a flat, lipless line. He had allowed Sherlock to assist him up the stairs of 221B, but there was a silence from him that echoed up and down the flat.

They reached the top, and John let out a sharp edged sigh. “I’m going to have a shower,” he said, not looking at Sherlock. “Get the smell of the hospital off me.”

“Right,” Sherlock said. “Right,” he said again, but John was already slowly making his way down the hallway.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the lounge. He had had a strange urgency in his body, ever since the hospital, ever since that moment in the alley when he had realized John had been hurt. It was a frantic sensation, like dozens of flies sealed in a small bottle. It made him want to flutter his hands in the air, even though such a movement was useless and accomplished nothing. So far he had been successful in suppressing it, but he now allowed himself to move – quickly, agitated.

He dashed down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson’s flat, and knocked. He barely kept himself from drumming a tattoo on the door.

She came to the door quickly – she had clearly been waiting. “Oh, Sherlock dear, you’re back! He’s all right then?” 

She spoke in a half-whisper, and the flat was darkened. Sherlock made an easy deduction. “She’s asleep?”

“Yes, sweet lamb. After I got your message I just got her ready for bed, I thought you’d be a lot longer. No sense in waking her up now – you two get some rest and I’ll bring her up in the morning.”

“All right – thank – thank you,” he said, glancing upstairs. He could hear the pipes rattling.

Mrs. Hudson clutched at his arm. “Sherlock – he’s all right then?”

Sherlock licked his lips, his eyes darting around. “Fifteen stitches.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Hudson sighed. She shook his arm slightly. “You go take care of him.”

“I-” Sherlock said, and then the doorbell rang. He turned to answer it, promptly forgetting she was there.

“You having a party, Mr. Holmes?” Ali said as he piled the bags, warm and fragrant, into Sherlock’s arms.

“Shut up,” he said, and put another five pounds into the grinning man’s hand.

The food covered the entire surface of the coffee table. Sherlock was opening the last of the boxes when John came slowly down the hall, damp and wrapped in his old housecoat. “What the-”

“You must be hungry, John, you haven’t eaten since lunch and it’s well past eleven now.”

“How did you-”

“I placed the order from the hospital. Were you able to keep your bandage dry? Does it need to be changed? Let me get some plates. I ordered the tikka masala, that’s your favourite, isn’t it? And there’s mutter pulao, with peas, you like peas. Here’s a fork. And-”

“Sherlock.”

“Sit down now, there. Mustn’t put pressure on the stitches. I suppose this is a lot of food but we can wrap it up for lunch tomorrow. I told Lestrade to not call with any cases for a few days until you’ve had a chance to-”

“Sherlock.”

John looked small and pinched, sitting on the sofa, and it was _so wrong_ for him to look like that. John was staring fixedly at the pile of food.

Sherlock swallowed, his hands helplessly fluttering, and said, “Yes, John.”

“Did you mean it.”

The world turned brittle, to glass, clear and fragile and terrifying.

“Did I mean what?” Sherlock said somehow, around his dry mouth.

“What you said. In the alley. While we were waiting for the ambulance.”

Sherlock wished he could swallow back his words, swallow back everything he had said or done for the last twenty four hours. _Bluff_ , his brain whispered frantically.

“And what precisely is it that you think I said?” Sherlock said in his snottiest, poshest tone. _Mistake, that was a mistake, stupid, stupid -_

John was still staring at the food, deliberately not looking at Sherlock. Sherlock could not read his mood – John could be furious, or exhausted, or… Sherlock couldn’t tell and it frightened him to _not know_.

“You said,” John said, and cleared his throat. “You said, ‘ _Don’t leave me_.’ You said, ‘ _I need you_.’ You said, ‘ _I lo_ -’” John stopped again, and hummed, the peculiar noise he made sometimes when he was saying something that was hard for him to say.

Sherlock couldn’t raise his eyes, couldn’t raise his head. He stared at the container of naan. “I thought you were unconscious,” he whispered, unable to speak at full volume.

“I wasn’t. I was almost but I wasn’t and I heard you. So. Did you mean it.”

There wasn’t enough air, there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room. All Sherlock could smell was curry and his own fear. “Just – just delete it,” he said.

“I don’t want to,” John said sharply.

Sherlock’s head snapped up to stare at him. John was breathing heavily, almost panting, his face pale but for two spots of dark pink on his cheekbones. His head was tilted down, gazing at his own knees.

Sherlock’s legs gave out and he sat, heavily, on the sofa next to John. He stared at John, unable to look away, his mind a riot of static.

“All my life, Sherlock, since – I think that – the best times in my life – I felt most alive when we were on cases, running, but – the happiest – the most content I’ve ever been was sitting down with you. Like – like now. So.” John looked up at Sherlock, as though his head weighed a thousand kilos and every muscle was fighting his attempts to move. “So. Did you mean it.”

The static faded away, and Sherlock’s voice sighed out without thought, “Yes.”

“Then Sherlock – my God, Sherlock – I-”

Sherlock suddenly remembered standing on the edge of the roof at St. Bart’s. As confident as he was in his Lazarus plan, he had had a terrible, terrifying flash of doubt standing there. He had thrown away his phone, he knew there was no more delaying, and all he had to do was tilt forward. Just as he did, he felt fear shoot through him, the brief and certain knowledge that nothing would be the same again. Then gravity took him and started the chain of events that had brought him to this.

John looked up, finally looked Sherlock in the eye. Sherlock gazed at him, saw everything there, and then swayed forward. And instead of hard pavement to break him, or a crash pad to bruise him, he found John’s arms to hold him.

Their mouths found each other, soft and tentative and still a little afraid. Then John let out a sigh against Sherlock’s lips, a sigh of relief of years of tension, and Sherlock made a quiet keening sound into John’s mouth, and suddenly the moment was no longer fraught with fear and doubt, but assurance and confidence and rushing joy.

Sherlock set about learning John’s mouth and skin in a way he never had before, and felt himself being learned in turn. He didn’t know how much time had passed, was passing, before John was helping him tilt down onto his side.

“Here, Sherlock, here, lie down, like this. That’s right. Put your arm – yes, that’s it. Lift your leg.” Sherlock obeyed as though in a dream, and John neatly tucked his knee between Sherlock’s thighs. Clever John had tangled them up together on the sofa neatly, their bodies intertwined and their lips only millimeters apart. Sherlock sighed in pleasure and stretched his body against John’s.

“Oh, Sherlock, that’s – that’s lovely.” John smiled at Sherlock, his face lit up as bright as all the stars Sherlock had ever seen. “Sherlock, listen. I do too, yeah? Everything you said, I do too. Okay?”

“Very okay,” Sherlock whispered. He felt safe and comfortable and he never wanted to move again.

“Sherlock,” John said, his eyes now serious. “I – I want you. I want to – to make love to you.”

Sherlock’s heart started hammering away in his chest, stealing every word he knew from his head.

“I do, Sherlock, but I – I’m shattered, and frankly still in a bit of pain, and – no, it’s all right, don’t move please. I just – Sherlock, I’ve my pride.” John looked up at Sherlock, and Sherlock couldn’t hide the feral shiver that ran through his body at that look full of dark promise and desire. “I want to make this good for you. Very good. For us. And, damn it, I can’t right now. Can we – can we just-”

“Of course, John,” Sherlock said, and it really was all right, it was the truth. “I think - I need some time anyway to – assimilate the information.”

“Of course you do,” John said. He tapped Sherlock gently, fondly on the forehead. “Need to get things organized here?”

“I do. I don’t want to lose any of this.”

John smiled, and tucked his face into Sherlock’s neck. “Stay?”

“Always, John.”

John’s housecoat had fallen open, and Sherlock could see a scattering of cinnamon coloured hair, freckled skin, and the edge of the gauze covering John’s stitches. A moment of hesitation, and Sherlock slid his hand between the lapels, laying his palm on the gauze, over the wound below.

“I am sorry, John. I never wanted-”

“Shh.” Sherlock felt the whisper of air, and John’s smile against his neck. “It was worth it, yeah? It was worth it, to know. Okay?”

“Okay.”

And Sherlock revelled in the gift of John in his arms, of John falling asleep in his arms. In time, Sherlock fell into sleep as well, secure and happy, as the food cooled behind him.

 

_End_

 


End file.
